hfurness: Poetry and Comments

Friday, November 7, 2008

Old Horth leaned heavily on his talking staffWalking with the weight of years and worryHis 47 anos have not been kind to him, but he stays in good spiritAnd now with the coming of the winter circle welcoming God’s giftThe return of the Sun cyclePlacing the twelf totem, the massive pillar on its wayWith the markings from the water carriers, ZethinesSoon all twelve tribes from all of the villages and the outlying huntersWould gather on the plane of the ancestorsNear the mouth of the creation deltaThe Henge mounds have been tendedMeat and grain have been laid asideHis apprentices have been schooledWhy did this script need to raise its hairy head again?Capturing speech in markings in the dirtTales are to be toldSymbols on a tablet will cause the People to worship the clayNot listening to the stories of GodHorth had learned all of the speech symbols from his teacher, GarethGareth had been a great warrior priest, keeper of the scared talesHunting the lion that attacked Arrack with Gareth is how HorthBecame lameOn that hunt in the dust while waiting out the lion in the hillsIs where Horth learned these symbolsGareth convinced Horth that the People must not create this false GodOr God would surely punish the PeopleHorth promised GarethThe lion circled back on the pair and took Gareth and Horth’s calf muscleBefore Horth could strike a fatal blowHorth fingered his talking staff, feeling the mark for GarethThe marks on the talking staff were just memory devices for storiesThey were not the same as the marks in clayChildren played near the wall, kicking a goat-belly ballIt was always good to hear their laughterThe Mothers were meeting in the fire circle this eveningThey would be planning the lineage, arraigning unions, determining educationThe intermingling of tribal blood was essentialGirls and beardless boys would be given places withinA village’s wallsHorth needed to see to the completion of the pillar’s positionThis new one would align with the winter’s setting sunThe calendar would be completeThe first of the three was for the rising of the summer’s sunThe last of the second three marked its settingThe first of the third three aligned with the rising winter sunThis last one would mark its settingThese sacred days set aside to worship God and to praise hisCreative power and our thanks for his giftsThe summer festival is for life and creationThe winter festival to mourn our dead and show the strong connectionTo our ancestorsHorth’s talking staff handed down from tale keepers of the long pastLeads the People in worship and praiseHe wanted Zontan to follow him, but that may not be God’s willZontan remains an enigma to old HorthAfter checking on the proceedings for the Mother’s meetingHe will head down to the grove of trees during the evening’s breezy timeTo listen to the whispered words

Monday, November 3, 2008

Weasels and jackals were active tonightZontan and Uris could see the distant glow of the fire circleThree full moon’s from tonight would be the winter’s endA time for both putting the year’s dead to eternal restAnd when the Mother’s would select mates for the huntersAnd farmers, toolmakers, priests, and others of each settlement of the PeopleThe Mothers determine who we are; the Fathers whatZontan had avoided Bibe’s choices, so farHe was well past the time for starting a familyEven Uris had fathered two children by BetheThey were fatherless now, but the Mothers would take up their careThe People’s tradition of the line determined by the motherThere were twelve settlements, descendents of the twelve daughters of OrbSoon all would be walled villages along the riverSumer’s wall was nearly finished and all of the stilled homesWould be abandonedQuetin was not comfortable about leaving his family homeHe enjoyed the solace of living on the edge of the river and villageNear his obsidian storeQuetin did not have the solitude of the hunters in the hillsOn the platitude above the river’s banks was the circleOne entrance pointed to sunrise in middle anos; the other to sunsetIn the end of anosThis end of anos, the People would raise the last, the twelf pillarEach one carved to match each totem villageThe inner circle would be completeHorth, a son of Greathe and the keeper of the tales,Would speak on the beginning of time and our placement in it by GodStories handed down from the time of Aamdam and EveanZontan was there last month with the debate to expel UrisHe knew the symbols that Uris knew and the abomination that it meantCapturing speech in symbols for all to see and not hearPut in clay with no interpretationThe Fathers felt the fear; the Mothers knew it

Friday, October 24, 2008

It had been rainy and lonely those first few nightsWith only some cold grains to eatChasing him out with stonesSending him out of the walls into the wildernessBidding him to never returnDriven out like that first couple from their maternal groundsUris felt that the people had stolen the fire from himHe had stayed angryOn the fourth sunrise as his wounds healed,He dried out and let that madness evaporateWith the water from his skinHe found flint, obsidian, wood, and the will to move onIt was a time to hunt, not just for meat, but for a way to continueHe could not fashion the spear tips to match QuetinUsing the obsidian and striking stones he made smaller tipsAnd with strands pulled from his tunicWas able to make the smaller striking sticksHe twisted the twine into a string, bending a strong shaftMade a bow as he had seen a northern man carry onceIt would doThe hare on the spit that night tasted like victoryIf not vindicationUris tried to understand the elders reticence in drawing wordsBetheadeeon had first showed him how to make some of the symbolsHe didn’t know why it was blasphemous if he only pictured praise for GodOr showing the exploits of GilgameshSome of the elders didn’t want these tales easy for everyone to seeWithout them to tell them the talesControlHe would ask Zontan why the speech spinner-elder, Horth, had turned on himUris knew that Zontan could draw speech and hunted aloneHe would track him when he came to the hills to huntThey both knew how to set the symbols in wet mud to keep the wordsUris knew that it was death to be caught on the hunting pathsHe knew how to hide his smoke in the hillsDamp leaves of the Tigrus tress suspended over small flames from hardwoodSkins from the hares would cure well and keep him clothedBut he missed his mother’s spinningMaybe he could find a mountain tribe and hunt for themTeaching them of God and Gilgamesh and of his people who descended from EdenAnd cultivated the crescentFrom one full moon to the next, he planned and hunted and scratched symbolsIn far hillsUris knew that Zontan would hunt the hills during the full face of the moonHe knew his rock

Wednesday, October 22, 2008

The moon rise is cool in the hills above the riverIt’s large, round, white lion face lights up the land and villageDark rimmed eyes stare downSeeing allThe dark will grow cold and longI am grateful for the company while I sit on a rock, waiting;Spears at the readyUsing a non-lethal end to make pictures of wordsIt is still forbidden to do soUrisabethe was stoned for it, after only last moon riseHe has been banished and lives in these hills, aloneI will meet him tonight while I am on guard dutyThe jackals are active tonight and I must stay awareThere is another lion pride that has killed our cattleThey hunt at sun rise when God sends us the new dayMy people once only lived off of what God gave usNow we are able to plant and grow;Raise and herd cattle, sheep, goatsAs well as hunt with skill; using knowledge gained fromThe fall of EdenThe tale of the Gil – Gilgamish – has taught us howI rub out the picture speak with my foot and take up the trail againOf the lion prideWolves howl at the night’s lightI hear the cattle’s concern from far belowThe first summer night when I took my man-lion’s tuff, I was 16 anosMy father had fashioned me a strong, sharp spearI tracked the pride to its lair, Eathis taught me wellI did not pick out the old lion as I was toldBut the alpha; I wanted the pride’s bestWhen I baited him to charge – I place the shaft’s butt in the sandHolding it fast with my foot and drove its head deep into his chestAs he fell at my feet, I was not prepared for the roar of rest of the prideAt his demiseOnly the fire circle that I lit with my flint kept them at bayI took the beast’s head in my hands, and praised his spirit to GodKnowing the when I ate his meat and wove his main into my hairI would grow from his strengthUris taught me to draw that story in the groundSomeday, I will place that in wet clay and let it dry so that it lasts foreverHorth and other tale-tellers will pass it in the circle of fireThese talk pictures will one day be inscribed for descendentsAncestors and descendents will be able to live in the same momentsKnowledge and storiesSomething moves to my left – I heft a spear, readyThis night will be long

Friday, October 17, 2008

The first time the men took me into the circle of fire andI heard the full tale of the hero, the GilI was 48 seasons or 12 anosSmooth faced and just beginning to learn the huntThe full gray beards sat closest to the red leaping flamesAnd told about time before historyThe circle of fire was the night time circle of timeThe straight tall polls arraigned to time the seasonsLetting us know when the sun will lower in the skyAnd when it will begin its rise in the sky againHere in the Tigerus valley this time table determines ourPlantings and when we bury our deadOur river provides us plants and meatPlants grow, animals come to waterI am Zontanabide, son of Quetin, the spear-tip makerAnd Bibe, my mother, herb mistress, knowing the property of plantsMy father can see into the heart of obsidian stoneChipping out the strongest tips with flesh slicing sharpnessThe flutes he fashions fit tight into the split-top poleHe knows when the sinew is chewed enough and will dryTo hold it all togetherHe made my spears special for me to kill my lion andTaught me how to throw straight and true with keen eyeI have my lion tuff tied to my hairAnd I’m around to prove both his worth as a spear-maker,My courage as a hunterI’ve heard the story of the Gil for six wintersEach time I see into our past with better understandingThe word spinner, Horth, is the wisest man the peopleHis beard is white and long, his days as hunter are past

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

Eduard came night after nightAnd sat at his table to take in a viewThose bangs, the straight nose, the hour glassAnd waited for her to sighBut it was only that green liquor to take him awayBut could not forget that down-ward gazeHer painted face couldn't hide her beautyThe milk-maid nee' bar-maidAnd that small mouthThat he could only guess would taste ofGarden peachesThe only way to capture her for himself wouldBe to put her on canvasBecause he would never be able to capture her between his sheetsHer downward cast gaze matched his forlorn stareAh well, Eduard knew that there two-franc womenAnd that was a lottery he could win

Monday, October 13, 2008

I’ve had wet feet since we hit the beachEight days agoI’m sitting in a dirt hole, cold; it’s getting darkAnd I can move back and try and sleep on the groundWhen the night gets blackI have seven killsMust think of them as Germans and not other menI’m trying not to think of homeIt seems like a long time ago I was playing footballIn high schoolBut, it was just six weeks agoI had never shot a gun beforeNow I have seven killsI hear my mom’s voice once in a whileBut only her tone and not her words anymoreIt was either me or themThe fire fight seemed to go in slow motion andLast foreverI scan the field with my glassesThere must have been wheat here before...It’s only a memory nowMy feet are cold, but at least I made it inlandI’m only up from the beach somewhere in ItalyI remember reading about the RomansAnd that’s all I know of ItalyExcept that the Germans came and killed ItaliansAnd now we must kill the GermansI have killed seven of them, and they killed a bunch of us onThe beach